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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224912">I would for you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride'>TheCrownprincessBride</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Christmas gifts 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Minor Character Death, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, The obligatory Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard trope</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 15:35:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,093</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28224912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrownprincessBride/pseuds/TheCrownprincessBride</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Jaskier gets taken hostage by Nilfgaard after the mountain, he doesn't believe that Geralt would come to ransom him. At least, he'll die protecting Ciri from a cruel fate. <br/>An approriately tragic ending for a bard, heroic even. What more could he wish for? -</p>
<p>Because Geralt won't come. He won't. He won't.</p>
<p>Or will he?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Christmas gifts 2020 [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065869</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>474</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Angsty Angst Times, Geralt is Sorry</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>I would for you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbraxasBelzebub/gifts">AbraxasBelzebub</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Dear AbraxasBelzebub, this is for you, a little Christmas gift of sorts. Thank you for reading and working so passionately and creatively on Djinny with me, for my first DnD game, for the Netflix-watching sessions, and for being there also on bad days, even if it's from afar. I'm very, very happy I got to meet you. &lt;3 To many more stories and years!</p>
<p>I explored "Jaskier gets captured by Nilfgaard", so it's dark, but not as dark as it could be. I hope you'll enjoy it.</p>
<p>TW: violence, non-graphic torture</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“It’s time.”</p>
<p>Although Cahir whispered, his voice carries easily through the shadowed cave where he and the other guards are waiting with their prisoner – which, unfortunately for Jaskier, is himself. They captured him weeks ago, maybe months. It was hard to keep track of time when surrounded by absolute darkness. He knows he’s in a hidden hole in the ground <em>somewhere</em>, deep below the surface.</p>
<p>Right now, however, the cave is dimly lit by various torches. He can discern its irregular shape, a high ceiling and sharp, jagged stone formations standing out in odd angles. It’s cold here, really fucking cold – or maybe that’s the blood loss and the poison talking.</p>
<p>“The Princess should be here by now if the Witcher fulfilled our demands,” he adds, glancing at Jaskier, and the bard flinches, avoiding those piercing grey eyes.</p>
<p>Just after his capture, he was brought into one of the Nilfgaardian prisons in an army camp and <em>questioned</em>, how Cahir called it. To Jaskier, it was full blown torture, whips and knives and fire and cruelty – his mind automatically shies away from the memories. But when Nilfgaard realised he knew absolutely nothing, they changed tactics. They brought him here – a place that Geralt would never find, where nobody would ever discover his body – and send a message to the Witcher. A note along the lines of: <em>If you want the bard to live, give us Princess Cirilla</em>, or something equally crass and inelegant. Jaskier would have written a much better ransom note.</p>
<p>“He better deliver us the Princess, or there’ll be nothing left of the bardling to rescue,” Fringilla says, sounding almost bored, examining her fingernails ostentatiously. Her expensive grey dress is so out of place in this dark, dirty hole that she seems to come from another world entirely. A world where there were nice clothes, and good food, and sunshine.</p>
<p>Gods, Jaskier barely remembers sunshine.</p>
<p>“I told you he won’t do it,” Jaskier whispers weakly. He told them many times, but they didn’t listen. “Geralt won’t abandon his child surprise. Not for me anyway.” His voice lacks the causticity he was aiming for; instead, he sounds defeated. He just doesn’t have the strength to deliver his usual smart remarks.</p>
<p>“Shut up, bard!” Cahir snarls.</p>
<p>He moves so fast that Jaskier doesn’t see the blow, he only <em>feels</em> it – a sharp, near-unbearable pain that shoots through his chest, making it impossible to breathe for a few moments. He knows that his ribs are still badly broken – he can only take shallow breaths – and his head is spinning wildly, causing the shadows to dance around the room.</p>
<p>It takes a lot of effort to look back up at Cahir, but he does, still breathing hard. “M-maybe you’re right. Maybe Geralt will find you one day, and then he’ll show you why he’s called the <em>Butcher of Blaviken</em>,” Jaskier sneers with all the arrogance he can muster, which admittedly isn’t much.</p>
<p>Of course, he knows that Geralt would morn his death for a day or two – another human he failed to protect – and maybe, he’d even avenge him. Yet, he would never <em>ever</em> let Nilfgaard have Cirilla, just to rescue an annoying and unwanted travel companion.</p>
<p>Jaskier knows that, he <em>knows</em>, but still... the thought drives tears into his eyes that have nothing to do with the pain wreaking havoc in his body.</p>
<p>Cahir laughs, but it’s an ugly sound, only malice no humour. “He could try,” he says with the self-confidence of a swordmaster. Well, he obviously never fought a Witcher.</p>
<p>Jaskier smiles to himself. There’s some solace to be found in the thought that this arrogant smug look will be wiped off Cahir’s face, even if he won’t be around to see it.</p>
<p>He shifts a little, and the heavy iron chains clank against the wall. Gods, his shoulders hurt from keeping his body upright. Why does he still feel that, even though his muscles are absolutely numb from the cold? How can he still feel every single thing they did to him? The broken ribs, the half-healed whip lashes on his back, the burns on his torso, the feral hunger in his stomach...</p>
<p><em>Soon, it’ll be over anyway</em>, he thinks quietly and closes his eyes again. The poison they gave him an hour ago is slow acting, but he knows he won’t live another night. Even if Geralt came... even if he exchanged Cirilla for him –</p>
<p>But no!</p>
<p>“You’re wrong,” he says loudly before false hope can bloom in his heart, sounding more like he’s trying to convince himself than Cahir. The mere thought of Ciri at Nilfgaard’s mercy hurts more than any of his physical wounds. He licks his dry lips, letting go of the last bit of pride he hung onto. He knows he will die tonight, and it kills him. This waiting for his own demise, for them to realise that Geralt won’t give into their blackmail, is agony, every minute a small death.</p>
<p>Yet, it isn’t a surprise. He’s always known how this would end, he’d known that first day in Posada. The Witcher smelled of <em>heartbreak</em> and <em>death</em>, after all.</p>
<p>“<em>Please</em>, just kill me and be done with it,” he begs, opening his eyes.</p>
<p>“If Princess Cirilla shows in time, we can give you the antidote. You might still live,” Cahir replies with the air of a cat dangling the cheese in front of a mouse’s nose, his grey eyes cold like a winter morning. Jaskier knows he won’t find mercy in them.</p>
<p>“What makes you think I’d want to live after –” the bard interrupts himself, swallowing hard. It takes him a moment to gather himself, then he adds, “Geralt doesn’t care what happens to me. I told you he sent me away.”</p>
<p>It’s a painful truth, but a truth nonetheless. The man he thought was his best friend in the whole wide world doesn’t care about him, doesn’t want him. It fucking hurts.</p>
<p>Finally provoked, Fringilla turns, her cool demeanour changing into smug arrogance. “I saw the truth in your mind, bard. You <em>love</em> him. You love a <em>Witcher</em>.” She snorts. “How pathetic.” She slowly walks towards him, and Jaskier presses himself further against the wall, even though his sore back screams at him. “He’ll come to ransom you, and we’ll get the Princess.” Her voice trembles with determination.</p>
<p>The bard stares straight into her dark eyes. “Yes, I love him. But I never said he loves me back. How foolish of you to believe –”</p>
<p>She slaps him across the face. “Don’t lie. I saw your memories, remember?”</p>
<p>As if Jaskier would ever forget the white hot pain as she rummaged through his mind, the burning shame when she dragged the most painful memories to the surface. He wonders what she saw that makes her think Geralt might actually <em>care</em> about him. She must be so blinded by her zeal that she ignored how the Witcher treated him on the mountain, how he basically wished for Jaskier’s death.</p>
<p>It seems now his wish would be granted, and Jaskier would be taken off his hands.</p>
<p>He chuckles, a bitter sound that reverberates through the hollow cave, and spits blood to the ground. “You’re forgetting that Witchers don’t feel emotions,” he repeats the lie Geralt told over and over again to keep everybody at an arm’s length. Now it protects the both of them, protects his heart – because Fringilla is right. How pathetic of him to fall in love with Geralt. He should’ve known better. But hearts are traitorous things, loving without the mind’s consent.</p>
<p>Jaskier is a poet. Of course, he knows that love is unpredictable, unexpected, uncontrollable, and oh, <em>unbearable</em> most of the time. Yet it’s also unconditional. He never expected anything from Geralt – certainly not to be ransomed from Nilfgaard – content with the small tokens of friendship he gave him, a blanket here, a smile there. These memories feel phoney to him now, altered by what he wanted to see, by what he hoped for.</p>
<p>How <em>pathetic</em> of him to hold onto that belief that Geralt cared about him. His missing rescue demonstrates clearly that Geralt doesn’t care, never cared.</p>
<p>“If you still think that he’ll come for me, then you’re even dumber than you look,” he rasps, projecting self-confidence where there is none.</p>
<p>Fringilla’s dark eyes narrow, and he knows he made a mistake in provoking her again. “You never learn, do you?” she says, and blue, dangerous chaos dances over her fingertips.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Jaskier’s scream stabs like a rusty knife into Geralt’s heart, and for a moment he believes he might bleed to death with the pain of it. It takes all he has to stay calm and collected, to lie as flat as possible on the narrow shelf of rock that is just wide enough to hold his heavy body. He has to watch Jaskier writhe in agony down below, and there’s nothing he can <em>do</em>. It’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done in his long life, a helplessness similar to the one he felt when he heard Eskel scream during the Trial of the Grasses or when Renfri bled out on the ground in front of him. But back then, he was either restrained physically or it was already too late to do anything – <em>now</em>, on the other hand, Jaskier is just a few metres away, and there’s nothing holding him back other than the plan he knows he needs to follow. It requires a strength he didn’t know he possessed, an iron will he’s never tested before, to watch his friend suffer, and <em>do nothing</em>.</p>
<p>May Jaskier forgive him in the end.</p>
<p><em>They’ll pay for hurting my bard</em>, he thinks, rage gathering in the pit of his stomach. <em>They’ll pay for threatening Ciri. </em></p>
<p>Jaskier is dying. He can see it, smell it. The bard is sickly pale, corpse-like, and it appears difficult for him to stay conscious, a feverish flush to his cheeks. His blue eyes are dim, glassy. Sweat drops down from his forehead to the ground, mingling with the blood from his split lip. He smells like blood and death and decay as the poison slowly spreads through his human body.</p>
<p>Gods, he would give anything if he could’ve only saved Jaskier sooner, if he’d only realised the bard was missing –</p>
<p>He would exchange <em>anything</em> to go back to that day on the mountain and never utter these cursed words. Anything. Even his life.</p>
<p>Instead, he has to lie here and hear how much he hurt Jaskier with his thoughtless, almost cruel words – cruel <em>because</em> they were thoughtless. The bard lost faith in him – it’s clear as day in his words – Melitele weeps, Jaskier <em>begged</em> for his own death – showing he <em>believes</em> with all his heart that Geralt doesn’t care enough to try and rescue him, that he would simply abandon him, leave him to his own fate –</p>
<p>And the worst of it is that Geralt did. It’s his fucking fault that Jaskier got captured and tortured. Jaskier’s pain and blood is on his hands.</p>
<p>Oh, how gladly he would slay Cahir and Fringilla for harming his bard, but he can’t just yet. He has to wait for Yen’s signal.</p>
<p>Trying to block out the broken sounds Jaskier makes, he shifts a little to get a better look at – what Nilfgaard considers – the only passage to this cave.</p>
<p>
  <em>Where are you, Yen? </em>
</p>
<p>Suddenly –</p>
<p>His medallion hums. Finally, <em>fucking finally</em> – the signal.  </p>
<p>“Jaskier’s right,” he says loud enough to be heard over Jaskier’s hoarse sobs, hoping to sound as mocking as he’d intended to. Suddenly, the room falls eerily quiet, only interrupted by Jaskier’s ragged breathing.</p>
<p>“I’ll show you what it means to cross the <em>Butcher of Blaviken</em>.” That hated name tastes sour on his tongue, but he needs to be the Butcher now, unfeeling and cold.</p>
<p>For a second, the Nilfgaardians freeze; then, they go from static to being in a flurry of motion. The ten guards unsheathe their swords, pointing them bewildered at the shadows moving around the cave in the torch light. Fringilla spins towards him, a protective shield around her and Cahir in an instant, while the knight readies his blades.</p>
<p>Jaskier, however, straightens a little, as if Geralt’s voice breathed life back into him. For a short moment, the Witcher can see a spark of hope in his features, his cornflower eyes burning with a blue fire – a fire neither Nilfgaard nor Geralt’s word could extinguish – and the Witcher lets that spark carry over to himself, igniting a fierce fire in his chest. And he just knows this one thing and holds onto it, knowing it will give him strength –</p>
<p><em>Jaskier will live</em>.</p>
<p>Swiftly, Geralt leaps to his feet, no longer hidden by the shadows. He pulls two bombs from his belt and drops them right into the guards’ midst.</p>
<p>
  <em>Boom.</em>
</p>
<p>Panicked screams echo through the cave that is suddenly very bright, lit by the flames dancing on the corpses of his enemies.</p>
<p>Geralt almost, almost smiles, a vicious satisfaction blooming in his chest, and jumps.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Jaskier watches in awe as the Witcher moves faster than anybody <em>should</em> be able to move. His sword gleams in the firelight as he deflects blows and retaliates in turn, dodging and twirling and twisting so fast his movements blur, dancing his own special dance – the dance of blades. He’s a shadow in the army of black soldiers, a demon among men, and they fall beneath his sword like sheep beneath a wolf pack. He’s the Butcher of Blaviken all over again.</p>
<p>The bard can hear more battle noise coming from the entrance of the cave, and Fringilla rushes towards it, the hem of her beautiful grey dress soaked in blood. The guards are long dead and Cahir takes their place, crossing swords with the Witcher.</p>
<p>Tears obscure his vision, and he blinks them away. He’s not sure why he’s crying anymore – because of the pain that still lingers in bones or because of the incomparable relief he feels as he watches Geralt fight.  </p>
<p>He <em>came</em>. He actually came to rescue him.</p>
<p>He cared.</p>
<p>That’s all that matters in the end.</p>
<p>“Geralt,” he calls out faintly, hoping that the Witcher might say his name again, that he might look him in the eyes, but of course he’s too absorbed in his combat with Cahir to react. The bard can’t even begin to name all the things he feels seeing his friend right now – alive and dangerous and <em>here</em> – fighting to save him, even though it’s already too late.</p>
<p>How kind of fate to grant him to see the love of his life one last time.</p>
<p>Every moment might be Jaskier’s last – he’s doomed, he knows. The edges of his vision are already blackening, and he has to fight tooth and nail to stay conscious.</p>
<p>Geralt has never been as beautiful as in this moment, never as deadly. Even blood-drenched and filthy, he looks <em>magnificent</em>. Scarlet drops run down his cheek and neck, like paint on marble, and a few strands of white hair are dyed garnet. And the way he fights... Jaskier could fill whole books with the way he moves; his simple elegance; his smile as feral as a Sphinx’s.</p>
<p>Geralt isn’t great with words. He’s not a poet – that’s Jaskier’s job – he’s a fucking poem.</p>
<p>
  <em>He walks in beauty, like the night/ Of cloudless climes and starry skies;/ And all that’s best of dark and bright/ meet in his aspect and his eyes.</em>
</p>
<p>That’s what he is, Jaskier thinks, feeling a little sad that he will never get to tell him, never get to put these words into a song. He only wants to watch the White Wolf a while longer.</p>
<p><em>Oh, please, I beg thee Melitele, don’t let this moment end</em>, he pleads silently.</p>
<p>Yet, death is not to be bargained with.</p>
<p>Cahir falls to the ground, a moan escaping his lips, clutching at the sword in his chest. Jaskier stares at his dead eyes that look like they’re made out of glass, and he feels <em>nothing</em>.</p>
<p>With one last effort, he lifts his head, and Geralt looks right back at him. For a second, the bard thinks he can glimpse straight into his golden soul. He isn’t at all sorry that the last thing he sees will be those eyes.</p>
<p> “Jaskier,” he hears a voice from very away, and he knows no more.</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>***</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine,” Yen says, straightening from where she was crouched over the lifeless body on the bed and smoothing down her dress. “The <em>Golden Oriole</em> did its work.”</p>
<p>Geralt exhales a sigh of relief, falling on his knees beside Jaskier. “Thank you,” he chokes out. The bitter smell of pain still clings to Jaskier’s skin, but Yen is right – the decay-scent of the poison is gone.</p>
<p>The sorceress healed most of his wounds, only the purple shadows of bruises remain all over his body. The bard looks so frail between the off-white sheets, too thin from weeks of starvation, and only his chest moving tells Geralt that he’s still alive.</p>
<p>Jaskier is never this still, never this silent, and it breaks him, like he never imagined he could be broken.</p>
<p>“He’ll be fine,” Yen repeats, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I will look after Ciri. You’re coming?”</p>
<p>“No,” he rasps. He can’t leave. Not now. Not yet anyway. Not until he knows that the bard is fine. He simply <em>needs</em> to make sure that Jaskier wakes – that he won’t stop breathing all of a sudden – and that he knows he’s safe.</p>
<p>Yen nods, leaving him to his silent vigil.</p>
<p>“Silly bard,” he whispers into the hollowness of the room. <em>How could you think I wouldn’t come... wouldn’t want to end the world if harm befell you? </em></p>
<p>Geralt rubs a hand over his face, thinking back on the violent rage that gripped him when he heard of Jaskier’s abduction. He wants to tell his friend, but words are so hard.</p>
<p>“Jaskier,” he tries again, but stumbles, “I would... –”</p>
<p>...<em>burn the world for you</em>? – No. Too blunt.</p>
<p><em>... always protect you</em>? – Yeah, of course, but more than that.</p>
<p>... <em>kill and die for you</em>? – Still not enough to express all the feelings in his chest, to describe how his heart flutters against his ribcage like a caged bird at the thought of losing him.</p>
<p>... <em>do anything for you</em>? – No. The words taste meaningless and empty on his tongue. Jaskier might be able to put these confusing emotions into words, but Geralt can’t.</p>
<p>So finally, he settles on, “I <em>would</em> for you.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The poem Jaskier recites is adapted from Lord Byron 'She walks in Beauty'.</p>
<p>If there are any TWs or tags to be added, please let me know. I was very tempted to end it on a cliffhanger, and post the rest as a second chapter, but it's Christmas, so I decided to be nice.</p>
<p>So, thank you for reading and Merry Christmas to all of you &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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